


i know this is what you want 'cause it's what you need (sleep)

by TheLimeGreenMachine



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: (not simultaneously), Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Aziraphale Has a Vulva (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Coming In Pants, Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Fluff, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Oral Sex, Post-Armageddon, Post-Canon, Service Top Crowley (Good Omens), lazy days in bed, the inherent eroticism of bathing, theyre switches bitches
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-22
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:47:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27666314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLimeGreenMachine/pseuds/TheLimeGreenMachine
Summary: “Give me a day,” Crowley says, drawing a knee up to his chest. His lips curl into a not-so-innocent smile as a plan begins to take shape in his head. “One whole day in. No bookshop, no work. Just you, me, and this dusty bed of yours.”While Crowley has begun to let his mind wander, imagining the possibilities, Aziraphale looks astonished. “An entire day?” he questions, voice lilting upwards. “Crowley, while I do love to indulge you, I still have things to take care of now and again. Besides, what would we even do?”“Whatever we like,” Crowley answers easily.- -Crowley and Aziraphale spend a day in bed together, and Crowley does everything he can to convince the angel it's alright to slow down once in a while.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 60





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> baby's first GO fic.....it has been ages since i posted, yes, i know. i decided to break the silence by posting the smuttiest shit i ever wrote. this was supposed to be a oneshot but by the time i'd written 8k i decided to turn it into a three parter. baby enjoy toy mummy buy 4 u
> 
> thank u to my darling gf (sapphiclemon) for the edits <3
> 
> title is taken from Sleep by Come Wind!

It comes up one night in the way that things usually came up: after an exorbitant amount of alcohol and conversation. They’re in the back of the bookshop, Crowley sprawled leisurely across the couch and Aziraphale in his chair. These days, most of their evenings are spent like this, with the two of them agreeing to share one bottle of wine that somehow turns into four. A good few months after Armageddn’t has given them enough time to settle into a routine. Crowley would never admit it, but he loves it. 

Aziraphale is doing that cute little thing he does where his nose scrunches as he tries to remember what he wanted to say. Crowley would tell him that he thinks it’s cute, but even through the haze of the booze, the words get stuck. Compliments and words of admiration have always been difficult for him to deal with, and though these past few months have brought them closer than they’ve ever been, old habits die hard, as they say. But that doesn’t prevent Crowley from gazing at him with what he suspects is a particularly pathetic glint in his eyes. 

As if finally noticing the eyes on him, Aziraphale meets his gaze. “You’re staring,” he points out, but there’s fondness in the words. His mouth twitches into a smile as he speaks. “Weren’t you ever informed that staring is impolite?” 

“I’m a demon,” Crowley drawls, draping a long arm across the back of the couch. “Being ‘impolite’ is a part of the job description. ‘Sides,” he adds, a bit quieter, “I like lookin’ at you.” He forces a shrug, trying to appear casual, though the angel across the way seems to have melted in his seat. 

“Oh, _Crowley_ ,” he sighs, a lovestruck smile blooming across his face as he brings himself to his feet. Crowley barely has any time to try and wave the whole thing off before Aziraphale has stumbled across the room and landed next to him on the couch. Their thighs press together, which Crowley would find pleasant if he weren’t distracted by the other sliding ever closer to him. They’re close enough that he can smell the angel’s cologne – that earthy petrichor scent of the city right before a good rain – and though they’ve been this close before, it still makes his head swim. Aziraphale has slotted himself into the demon’s side. “Never pictured you as a romantic,” he murmurs, and reaches to take the near-empty glass from his hand. 

“’m not romantic,” Crowley grumbles automatically, even as the hand behind Aziraphale’s back has started to fiddle with the collar of his coat. It makes it more difficult for him to set Crowley’s glass down on the table, still swaying as it is from the alcohol. 

“But you _are_ ,” Aziraphale insists, fingers skimming the jut of his jaw. Crowley can’t suppress the shiver that trails up his spine at the touch; Aziraphale’s fingers are cool, slightly chilled from where he took the glass. With his other hand, the angel removes his sunglasses before leaning in and murmuring, “I love that about you. But don’t fret,” he teases, and cups his cheek, “I’ll keep it a secret.”

The kiss is, as it always is (as it always _has been_ ) an expression of everything that goes unsaid between them. It also turns dirty in a fraction of a second. Aziraphale slots their mouths together lazily, kisses him as if they have all the time in the world (and they _d_ o, Crowley realizes, which sends a jolt of excitement through him). He’s vaguely aware of his sunglasses falling to the floor, but he couldn’t bring himself to care in the slightest. Not when Aziraphale’s breath hitches as a hand smooths up his thigh and curls around to grip his behind. It isn’t long after that when Crowley realizes he’s on his back, and the angel is gazing down at him with so much adoration it’s a wonder the intensity of his gaze hasn’t burned a hole through the couch. 

But of course, Crowley has to open his mouth and ruin it. 

“Stay the night,” he blurts, and watches as Aziraphale’s gaze morphs into one of bewilderment. Before he can say anything else, the angel is sitting up, and Crowley can barely suppress a whine of frustration. “Not that – I mean, when I said–” 

“My dear,” Aziraphale blinks, “this is my bookshop, after all.” 

“No no, I mean,” he tries as he sits up, hands flailing uselessly between them, “shit. I meant, sleep with me.”

The confusion on the angel’s face only doubles. “I was planning on it,” he says. 

With a grunt, Crowley pulls himself to his feet and forces himself not to stumble. This is a conversation he had been planning for another time, one when he hadn’t had nearly two whole bottles of wine by himself. “’m too drunk for this,” he grumbles, and squeezes his eyes shut in concentration.

“Do I not usually stay the night?” Aziraphale continues on, eyebrows drawn together in confusion. When he looks up and sees the bottles around them beginning to refill, he huffs in exasperation and says, “Oh, alright.” With a hum of concentration, he shuts his eyes and sobers himself up. When he finishes, the demon is staring at him with anxiety written all over his face. Aziraphale frowns. “Now, my question still stands–”

“I’m not talking about sex,” Crowley interrupts. He kneels to the floor and retrieves his sunglasses so he has an excuse not to look at Aziraphale as he talks. “I meant just. Sleeping,” he shrugs. He feels the sting of eyes on the back of his neck, tries to ignore them even as he settles back onto the couch. 

“Sleeping?” Aziraphale questions, looking absolutely bewildered. “I can’t say I ever enjoyed it too much. I know you’ve always been fond of the practice, but–”

“It isn’t that,” he says quickly, just to save the angel some breath. Crowley knows that Aziraphale has never enjoyed sleep like he has, and it was never something that crossed his mind during their Arrangement. But now that they’re together, it’s hard not to notice. After sex, Crowley falls asleep, and whether they’re at his place in Mayfair or the dusty flat above the bookshop, he always wakes alone. Aziraphale is never far away, but Crowley has become terribly greedy. Needy, he might call it. He wants to occupy as much time with the angel as possible. But he doesn’t know how to express these feelings properly without completely giving himself away, so he clears his throat and tries again. “Might just be nice, is all. To wake up to you.”

There’s a hand on his arm, and Crowley finally brings himself to look over. Aziraphale’s smile is kind – too kind, Crowley thinks, for a request as petulant as this – and he says, “My darling boy, you only need to ask.”

Their lips meet again, gentler this time, but still startling in its intensity. They barely break apart as Aziraphale pulls the two of them off the couch, leading them towards the staircase in the back of the shop that leads to his apartment. Crowley pulls off his tie as they continue to trade kisses while stumbling up the stairs, and he thinks that if getting what he wanted was really so simple, he shouldn’t have sobered up after all. 

* * *

Crowley has always enjoyed sleeping in, and he only enjoys it more these days. Much like how his bed is a reflection of the rest of his sleek black and gray flat, Aziraphale’s bedroom is as happily cluttered as the bookshop below. Dust motes dance in the midmorning light that’s cast onto a baby blue comforter. It’s everything that makes up Aziraphale, and Crowley loves it. He could easily see himself and the angel curling up for the next decade or so and not bothering to move. 

The next morning, he was heavily considering it, even before he opened his eyes. Crowley’s senses had sharpened long ago so that he knew whether he was alone or not, or if he was being watched. That was how he knew Aziraphale was still next to him, right where he had been when he closed his eyes the night before. He tries to suppress a smile, shoving his face back into his pillow. 

A hand comes to rest atop his head and card through his hair. “Good morning, my dear,” Aziraphale hums. His fingers press into his scalp and Crowley rumbles, low in his chest. These were the kind of moments he had been imagining; yes, the last few months had been amazing, but he hadn’t been able to get this simple, intimate idea out of his head. He rolls over so he can face his angel, reaches up to the hand in his hair with the intent to press a kiss to his skin – 

He feels cloth. Rubs the edge of a well-tailored sleeve between his fingertips. When he opens his eyes, Aziraphale is fully dressed, a book resting in his lap. 

Startled, Crowley sits up to give him a onceover. He’s wearing everything in his usual getup save for his shoes, which are probably placed neatly by the side of the bed. Seeing him reminds Crowley that he’s still naked from the night before, made worse from the sheets that have slipped down his chest. “Angel,” he says slowly, “what time is it?”

“Quarter to nine, I believe.” He’s frowning, having been forced to remove his hand from Crowley’s hair when he sat up. “Is everything alright?”

With a huff, Crowley lands back on the bed, subtly trying to pull the covers back up over his lap. “No, yeah, s’all fine, just…how long have you been up?”

“Oh, since a bit before sunrise. I had a bit of tea and went down to tidy up in the shop for a while, and I figured you would be getting up about now, so I’ve just been here reading for an hour or so,” Aziraphale lists. Crowley wishes he were wearing his sunglasses so the disappointment that flashes across his face wouldn’t be so obvious. He tries to hide it anyways by squeezing his eyes shut. But that half-second of emotion is all Aziraphale needs. “Crowley, what’s wrong? I had a little bit of a late start, but that’s what I do most mornings.”

“Did you sleep at all?” he snaps, and knows right away his tone was too harsh. With a sigh, Crowley sits up again and rests his hand on the bed, placing his littlest finger on top of Aziraphale’s. He gets a small squeeze in return, so he knows he’s forgiven. “Right, I just meant–”

“I did sleep,” Aziraphale clarifies. Crowley hears the book in his lap being shut and placed on the nightstand next to the bed. “For a bit, that is. I’m sorry, my dear. I’ve never been the greatest at keeping still for long periods of time.” They lock eyes so that he can smile apologetically. “I suppose that’s because I was made to serve, after all. They never did take too kindly to wasting time upstairs.”

“It’s not wasting time!” Crowley insists, to which Aziraphale quirks an eyebrow. “Yes, well, alright, maybe it’s technically a waste of time, since we don’t actually _have_ to sleep ‘n all. But then so is eating, and drinking, and dancing, and just about everything else we’ve gotten kicks out of for the last few millennia.”

“…Perhaps,” the angel concedes, but his brows are furrowed. Something in his tone has shifted, Crowley recognizes: an indication that the angel’s resolve has begun to waver. He takes a moment to think. “Whenever I awake, no matter what, my clothes are rumpled, and I have a foul taste in my mouth.” He frowns, smoothing a hand down his trousers as if to erase any wrinkles there. “Plus, there is always… _goop_ in my eyes.”

Crowley stifles a laugh, but Aziraphale notices anyways and narrows his eyes into a glare. Leave it to his angel to be worried about appearances at even the strangest of times. “Yes, angel, but that’s the give and take of it! You can’t seriously tell me you’ve never had a meal that left a bad taste in your mouth. Remember when we were over in the States for a few years? Early fifties?”

They both shudder in disgust, remembering a late-night jaunt to a restaurant that was getting as much good press as it was bad. In retrospect, it could hardly be called a restaurant at all. “Ah yes,” Aziraphale finally answers, mouth curled into a frown, “the great American invention of ‘fast food’. Couldn’t forget it if I wanted to.” 

“Yeah, well, it’s the same thing with sleep. S’not always gonna be a five-star meal at the Ritz,” he chides playfully, running a thumb over his partner’s knuckles. When he looks up, Aziraphale smiles, raising their joined hand to his lips. Crowley lets him press a few kisses to his pale fingers before he slips his hand away so he can cup Aziraphale’s face. “Thing is,” he says slowly, “if I get to do it with you, then…then it’s always good. No matter how stupidly, grossly human it may be.” 

Aziraphale’s smile deepens, cupping Crowley’s hand with his own and leaning into his touch. “You sap,” he teases, and laughs when Crowley huffs out a noise of protest. Their hands fall back onto the bed, still joined. “I do suppose you have a point, my darling. I cannot say that I will take to it as readily as you have, but…we could give it another go, perhaps.”

“Give me a day,” Crowley says, drawing a knee up to his chest. His lips curl into a not-so-innocent smile as a plan begins to take shape in his head. “One whole day in. No bookshop, no work. Just you, me, and this dusty bed of yours.” 

While Crowley has begun to let his mind wander, imagining the possibilities, Aziraphale looks astonished. “An entire _day_ ?” he questions, voice lilting upwards. “Crowley, while I do love to indulge you, I still have things to take care of now and again. Besides, what would we even _do_?”

“Whatever we like,” Crowley answers easily, gently squeezing the angel’s hand. He knows Aziraphale well enough to know his quarrel isn’t necessarily with sleeping, but the thought of being unproductive for an entire twenty-four hours. As Aziraphale mentioned earlier, it’s the years of living under Heaven’s rule for so long still rearing its ugly head. He still has some habits to fix, too, but with Armageddon off the table, they have all the time in the world to work out the kinks together. “We could chat, read a book, have a bite to eat, sleep the day away…or whatever you’d usually get up to in a bed,” he adds, pitching his voice a bit lower. He delights in the way a subtle flush rises up Aziraphale’s neck and colors his cheeks. 

Slowly, he drops his knee from his chest, letting the sheets flutter down to expose the smooth plains of his hips. When the other’s eyes inevitably flicker over to the newly revealed skin, Crowley swings his leg over Aziraphale’s body and seats himself right in his lap, his lithe nude frame pressed against the other’s clothed form. “Don’t have anything to worry about anymore, angel,” he murmurs, leaning forward to nose lightly at the pulse point under his jaw. He can’t help but grin as the angel’s heartbeat flutters beneath his breath. “Let me make it sweeter for you. I’ll take care of the whole thing, won’t even tell you when it’ll be. All you have to do is sit on that pretty arse of yours and relax,” and Aziraphale gasps as a hand sneaks down to grip his rump. Finally, Crowley draws away from the warmth of his lover’s neck, looks at him through golden, half-lidded eyes. “What do you say?” 

Aziraphale’s gaze focuses on his parted lips for a moment too long before he looks up to lock eyes, and Crowley already knows he’s got him. His favorite pastime for the past few hundred years or so has been exactly this: talking Aziraphale into something he wants to do in the first place. A grin breaks out across the angel’s face, his eyes still dilated as he breathes between them, “Oh, you are _excellent_ , my dear. How could I refuse something so utterly tempting?”

“Nah, no tempting whatsoever.” Crowley grins back, showing far too many teeth to be considered anywhere near innocent. He shifts closer to press their chests together and wraps his long arms around Aziraphale’s neck. “Just my silver tongue.”

“Oh, it’s silver, now, is it?” Aziraphale replies around a soft laugh. His hand goes to the back of Crowley’s neck, pulling him closer as he hums, “Suppose I’ll have to find out.”

* * *

Crowley has got to admit that when he pictured the end of the world, it looked nothing like this. Before, he’d imagined a few scenarios, but no matter what the outcome was, he wasn’t anywhere close to happy. He’d realized eons ago that eternity meant nothing without Aziraphale, so he didn’t enjoy spending a lot of time thinking about the world without him. But ever since The Apocalypse That Never Was, all of those gut-wrenching thoughts were reduced to nothing more than a fever dream. He had his angel and he had the world, and that was all he needed. 

They were, however, still technically employed by their respective sides, though that only meant a fraction of what it used to. The days of Beelzebub’s voice crackling over his radio were in the past, so Crowley decided his new lifelong assignment was to continue to muck things up for the humans and cause general mischief. He had a good feeling that would suffice as far as his job duties went.

Aziraphale, on the other hand, was not quite as lucky. While he also hadn’t heard from any of the higher-ups since the whole body-switching debacle, he was not as ignored as Crowley was. Apparently, in lieu of in-person check-ins, Heaven had decided to start sending monthly memos in the form of a newspaper on the front step of the bookshop. On the first of every month, it would be sitting on his doorstep without fail. They were not so different from the assignments Aziraphale had received in the past, but instead of being requirements, they acted more like suggestions. In the half-year since the Not-Apocalypse, Aziraphale had only taken up one of them, and it was only because he’d heard of a new restaurant in the area he’d been meaning to try. 

On the first of December, Crowley strolls into the bookshop, ignoring the sign on the door that insisted the place was closed. He shivers, kicking the icy sludge from the streets off of his boots. “Angel!” he calls out, moving deeper into the welcome warmth of the bookshop. 

“In the back,” a soft voice intones, and Crowley follows the sound until he finds the angel sitting primly at his desk, a newspaper in his hands. He barely perks up, unable to tear his eyes away from the paper even as a kiss is pressed to the crown of his head. 

Crowley knew that Aziraphale still received word from Heaven via the memos, but it was unusual for him to be scanning them so thoroughly. They were usually afterthoughts at most, but the expression on Aziraphale’s face was troubling. Still waiting for one of them to speak, Crowley leans up against the edge of the desk. “What is it?”

“It looks like I have to go to Germany for a week,” he murmurs, conflict evident in his voice. His brows are furrowed, casting a shadow over his normally cheerful blue eyes. 

“Have to?” Crowley questions, eyebrows flying towards his hairline. The first thought that runs into his head is one of the worst-case scenarios he had agonized earlier in the early days of The Rest of Their Lives: that Heaven, having somehow figured out their ruse, was trying to draw the angel back under their wing and force him back into full-time employment. If Heaven had found out what happened, it wasn’t long before Hell came to his doorstep to drag him kicking and screaming back underground. 

Unaware of the various shades of panic flashing across the demon’s face, Aziraphale sighs and folds the paper to set back on his desk. “Yes, I’m afraid so. Apparently, there’s word floating around of a plot to burn down a bookshop that’s been standing there for centuries. They’ve got an original printing press that’ll be lost to time without divine intervention. I’d be leaving Saturday evening.” 

“Oh,” Crowley breathes, feeling the tension drain out of his body through an exhale. “So. Just a normal job, then. Not…putting you back into the pay ledger for some reason.” He hopes the relief isn’t too evident on his face. 

“Yes, it’s an ordinary assignment, but still,” the angel argues. Crowley has to resist a smile; he hears the edge of a whine in Aziraphale’s voice. “I know we had plans to see a Sunday matinee this weekend, and I’ve heard such lovely things about the performance.” He reaches for the demon’s hand perched on the desk, giving it a gentle squeeze. “It might not make up for it, but I would still love if you would accompany me.”

“Can’t, angel,” he says, rolling his head so he could look at Aziraphale, and – _oh_. He was giving the biggest, saddest doe eyes he could, and the lines on his forehead only deepened as Crowley spoke. “Got plans to mess with the broadcast during Tuesday night’s football game. It’ll really piss off those old sods at the pub down the street,” he adds with a bit of a laugh. When Aziraphale doesn’t move, instead casting his eyes towards their joined hand, he sighs and leans a bit closer. “C’mon, Aziraphale, s’no big deal. We can catch a different show somewhere when you get back.” 

He doesn’t reply right away, letting the words hang in the air. “Well,” the angel tries slowly, “I suppose I don’t _have_ to go to Germany. The memos are mere suggestions, after all. Perhaps the plot to burn down the bookshop mentioned was just…idle chit-chat.” As if to reassure himself, he squeezes the demon’s hand again. 

But there’s a hesitance lingering in Aziraphale’s voice. He speaks the word _bookshop_ with a certain familiarity, like he shares a kinship with a place he’d never been. Plus, when he talks about a centuries old bookshop burning to the ground…Crowley can’t help it. His eyes flicker shut for just a moment, and when he opens them, he sees charred books and ash, flames licking their way up crumbling bookshelves. In the distance, a siren sounds, and he braces himself for a blast of water that’ll knock him to the ground– 

“Crowley?”

Blinking again, Crowley looks down to see the shop as perfectly cluttered and dusty as it was before, and free of fire. He also sees Aziraphale gazing at him through worried eyes, lips parted as if ready to speak his name again. And he can’t help but smile.

“Go to Germany, angel,” he murmurs, unable to keep the fondness out of his voice. He slips his hand away, intending to reach out and run it through his soft white curls, but Aziraphale wraps his arms around Crowley’s midsection and pulls him closer. He presses his face into Crowley’s chest, and they breathe together for a moment, a useless but indulgent habit. 

Just as Crowley wants to fall asleep and wake up next to his angel, it seems Aziraphale is reluctant to leave the demon’s side for such a period of time. For so long, any time they could spend together was stolen and private: a playful back and forth, lingering glances, confessions spoken in code in case of any listening ears. After spending the past half-year unable to keep away for a few days, it’s no wonder both of them still have such difficulty imagining the idea of being apart. Sometimes they need to remind one another that things are different now, and Crowley luxuriates in being able to provide that support. He smooths a hand through Aziraphale’s hair and presses another kiss to the top of his head. “I’ll still be here when you get back. You go and save that bookshop, see if you can convince ‘em to part with that printing press. You’re probably salivating just thinking about it.” 

“I already have a printing press,” Aziraphale huffs into his chest, voice muffled. 

“Course you do,” Crowley snorts. Aziraphale pulls away just enough to press his chin into Crowley’s sternum, eyes still alight with concern. “Remember? This is The Rest of Our Lives. We don’t have to choose anymore, angel.” The demon quirks a smile at him. “You can have your cake and eat it, too.”

Aziraphale laughs and unwinds himself from Crowley’s body so he can pull himself to his feet. “I do enjoy cake,” he admits after a moment, pressing a hand to Crowley’s chest. His smile is radiant, the kind that reminds Crowley of Mesopotamia; not the flood, but after, with the first rainbow, watching it unfurl from the remaining storm clouds and hearing the angel’s voice in his mind. Before he can embarrass himself by bringing that up, Aziraphale has pressed their bodies together and is kissing him. Any comments he’d been stringing together quickly melt away with the slide of soft, plump lips against his own. 

But Aziraphale is pulling away before he can properly reciprocate the kiss. Crowley chases him, aching to steal whatever breath is left in the angel’s lungs, but Aziraphale chuckles again and presses the hand against his chest firmer. “I love you, Crowley, my darling,” he sighs, and Crowley feels a wave of heat rush through him as he imagines kissing the words out of Aziraphale’s mouth. A mouth that is currently quirked in a somewhat bashful grin. “But since you’ve brought it up, I haven’t had a good slice of cake in quite some time, and I’ve heard of a bakery across town that has an excellent plum cake.”

Crowley groans, the rising tide of arousal quelled and stored away for later. “Fine, fine,” he grouses good-naturedly, peeling his body away from the other’s. He retrieves his keys from his jacket pocket and heads with the angel towards the door. “Pull my leg, why don’t you, I’ll drive.” They exit the shop and Crowley leans against the storefront, watching Aziraphale pull out his own keys. “You want to have a proper sit-down and grab dinner first?”

“Hmm, that’s alright, my dear,” the angel hums as the lock clicks shut. “I would rather we get it to go, actually.” His keys jingle as he returns them to his pocket, and there’s a glint of mischief glittering in his eyes when they meet Crowley’s. Aziraphale looks unaffected when the demon raises his brows; in fact, the bastard has the gall to add a graceful smile to his face. “Well, if I’m going to be away from you for a week, my love, I should hope to enjoy you all the more while I can.” With a quick flash of teeth, he slips away and heads for the Bentley. He doesn’t even complain when Crowley drives through the streets with the pedal pressed to the floor. 

* * *

The week while Aziraphale is away goes just about as well as Crowley imagines it would: unremarkable at best and agonizingly boring at worst. They chat a bit over the phone when Aziraphale makes it to his hotel, but other than that, Crowley spends most of his time alone, causing general mischief and yelling at his plants. He’s able to interrupt the broadcast of what was projected to be one of the most-watched games of the season, leaving every sports lover with a crap telly in the country to erupt in rage when their screens turn to static. Some of his finer work, he muses, though he may go a bit overboard on the finishing touches. The morning after the game, all of those who had tried to enjoy a beer while watching wake up with incredible hangovers. 

About halfway through the week, Crowley remembers his discussion with the angel while they lounged in bed together. He remembers the promise of surprising Aziraphale, taking care of everything so they could both relax, and he figures, what better time for wasting an entire day than following a week-long trip for work?

After that, it became damn near _impossible_ to calmly wait for the angel’s return. He could hear Aziraphale’s sing-song voice chiming in his mind, ‘ _Patience is a virtue, my dear’_ , and though a demon should never be called virtuous, Crowley knew he had plenty of patience. He’d spent centuries waiting for Aziraphale, so in theory, a week waiting for him should be nothing. It just made it all the more irritating that he was so damn jittery, especially when he found himself glancing at clocks much more than usual. 

By the time Saturday afternoon rolls around, Crowley’s plants have never looked greener. One trembles so badly as Crowley is getting ready to leave his flat that a bit of dirt falls to the floor, right in front of his boot. With a snarl, he removes the offending plant from its pot and lifts it aloft for the others to see. “See now, _this_ ,” he growls to them, shaking a bit of dirt from its roots as its leaves begin to shudder, “this is _definitely_ not a habit any of you are going to get into. You think that dirt’s gonna do you any good sitting on the damned _floor_?” He leaves the dirt on the floor as an example to the others and exits his apartment with the still-shaking plant in his hand. 

It isn’t hard to shove the small thing into another pot and set it in the passenger seat of the Bentley. Aziraphale’s place could use some more greenery, Crowley reasons with himself as he takes to the streets of London. The angel spends enough time cooing over his plants whenever he’s there, so it’ll be a nice (albeit additional) surprise when he returns. Still, Crowley doesn’t want any of his plants relaxing – whether they’re in his flat or Aziraphale’s – so he steps on the gas all the way to the bookshop, occasionally looking over to glare daggers at the thing, huddled and shuddering against the door. 

When he gets to the bookshop, he opens the locks with a small miracle and heads inside, setting the plant down on Aziraphale’s desk. The angel should be home within the hour, so Crowley goes about finishing the last-minute touches, having already planned out and taken care of everything else earlier in the week. He’s just getting the lighting in the shop down to a warm amber glow when he hears the front doors open, followed by the sound of scuffling feet. 

Crowley peeks around a bookshelf and sees Aziraphale standing in the doorway, a deep-set frown on his face as he struggles with a tartan scarf and heavy winter coat. “Really now,” he’s muttering to himself, kicking the sludge off of his shoes, “angels aren’t meant for the cold. I was created for _Eden_ , not winter in London.” With a sigh, he hangs up his coat and scarf by the door. He goes to pick up his suitcase when he catches a flash of red and looks up. 

And _oh_ , some part of Crowley has missed this. The first locking of eyes after ages of not seeing each other, whether it’s a day or a decade. It’s unrestrained, but unlike pre-Armageddon, Aziraphale makes no effort to reign in the joy that shines on his face. It makes Crowley’s heart kickstart and stutter in the same beat. “Crowley!” the angel beams, and somewhere in the bookshop, his gramophone comes to life and begins to play a piece with a crooning violin. 

“Hey, Aziraphale,” Crowley answers in an attempt to appear casual. He still can’t keep the grin off his face, though, especially as he makes his way over to where his angel is standing with open arms. He stops just short, gestures down to his body with a smirk. “Take it all in, as long as you n–” 

He gets halfway through his quip before Aziraphale is pressing up against him, taking his face in both hands and bringing their lips together. Crowley gasps, clutching at his lapels, and Aziraphale eats it up hungrily as he tosses the demon’s sunglasses away. They only part for a moment before he dives back in, crowding him against a nearby bookshelf. Crowley holds on tight and feels his knees go weak. 

“I’ve missed you, my dear,” Aziraphale breathes out between kisses. His knee presses in between Crowley’s thighs as his tongue parts the seam of his lips. He’s already made an Effort, apparently, which is making its presence known as it rubs against a slender hip. Crowley’s brain short circuits at the touch, momentarily reeling with the sensations of _yes_ and _oh fuck_. But as nice as this is, the plan isn’t for the two of them to rut up against a bookshelf like teenagers. So, he breaks away with a groan and tries to speak as Aziraphale goes to press his lips to his jaw. 

“Angel,” he tries weakly, unconvincing even to his own ears. “I missed you too, but I – aahhh–” his words tumble into a moan as Aziraphale sucks a very visible mark on his neck. If he loses control here and lets Aziraphale do what he wants, he’ll be putty in his hands for the rest of the night. This isn’t supposed to be about him. Wetting his lips, Crowley tries again. “I have something for you. Waiting. Upstairs.”

“Hmm,” Aziraphale hums, pulling away with a smile bordering on smug. “Something for me? I can’t imagine it’s more enticing than what I have here in my arms,” and to emphasize, he leans in and nips the demon’s earlobe. Crowley bites back what would have been an undignified squeak, tries not to roll his hips.

“It’ll get cold,” he nearly whimpers as a last-ditch effort. Luckily, that peaks Aziraphale’s interest, and when he leans back this time, there’s a distinct spark of curiosity in his eyes. 

“Cold?” he repeats, and when Crowley nods, a grin breaks out across his face. “Well, then, what are we waiting for, darling? Lead the way.” 

Crowley suppresses a sigh of relief as he ushers him towards the stairs. He insists on carrying Aziraphale’s bag despite his protests, managing to make it all the way to the second floor without breaking a sweat (of course, he doesn’t normally sweat in the first place, but Aziraphale’s bag is so heavy he gets damn near close). They leave the luggage in the kitchen and Crowley steers him down the hallway, towards the bathroom. When he opens the door, a cloud of steam lazily wafts out and warms their faces. 

“Figured you could use a good soak. Y’know, seeing as how big a pain in the arse travelling the old-fashioned way can be,” he says with a shrug, pressing a gentle hand to the small of Aziraphale’s back to lead him inside. As with most things, bathing isn’t necessarily something they have to worry about; changing clothes and keeping clean is as simple as a snap of the fingers. But in recent times, they’ve taken to doing it the human way; there’s a kind of charm about it, to taking their time and luxuriating in it. And Crowley plans to have them do nothing but luxuriate for the next twenty-four hours or so. 

Aziraphale turns to him, and the smile on his face brings a blush to his cheeks. “Crowley, this is wonderful,” he says, and leans in to press a chaste kiss to his lips. When they pull away, he quirks a brow, amusement evident in his eyes. “Is there an occasion I should be aware of?” 

“What, I can’t do something for you out of the goodness of–” he cuts himself off when Aziraphale’s smile widens. He waves a hand between them. “Never mind all that. You’re going to wash off, and then we’re getting in bed.” Another raise of the brow, to which Crowley huffs. “And then you’re _staying_ in bed.” With that, he moves to start undoing Aziraphale’s bowtie. 

They’re silent for a minute as Crowley helps him undress, the only noise that of the water gently lapping at the sides of the elegant clawfoot tub. When he’s down to his undershirt, Aziraphale pauses, then says, “Oh! Is this that day of staying in we were discussing?” 

“Not just staying in,” Crowley clarifies, watching as the angel shucks off his clothes and steps out of his trousers. He tears his eyes away to dip his fingers into the water, making sure it’s still steaming hot. “Staying in _bed_ . For a whole day. Thought you might like to do nothing after being away for a week.” He waits for the inevitable protest ( _oh, Crowley, come on now, my work has piled up, the bookshop looks a mess, some other time perhaps_ ), but nothing of the sort comes. When he looks back, Aziraphale stands fully nude in the center of the room.

He finds himself moving towards the angel, eager to touch his soft, milky skin. Crowley begins at the rolls of his hips and waist, smoothing his hands up his body, up through the light dusting of pale hair on his chest. He sees Aziraphale flush and catches him taking a deep, slow breath, the roundness of his belly expanding. “Oh,” Crowley breathes, finally meeting his eyes as his hands come to cup his face, “by Somebody, you’re a sight.” And though he’s watching Aziraphale’s face, he doesn’t miss how his cock twitches with interest. He’s tempted to go on, to wax poetic about his angel’s Rubenesque form, but he remembers (with a bit of a thrill) that they’ll have plenty of time for that later.

So, his hands leave Aziraphale’s body (not without a small noise of protest from him, Crowley notes), and he gestures back to the steaming tub. “Get in, angel. I’ll take care of you.”

As Aziraphale steps into the tub and sinks down, the water rises higher until it gently laps at the edges, and miraculously, none of it spills to the floor. He moans softly, settling himself and resting his arms on either side of the tub. “Oh, Crowley,” the angel sighs out, looking up at him through pleasure bleary eyes, “this is _heavenly_ , my dear, thank you.”

“Careful there,” he snorts in amusement, “can’t have anyone getting the wrong idea. I’ve got a reputation to uphold.” Crowley idly picks up the clothes off the floor as Aziraphale slips further down into the bath, now submerged up to his chin. “Got a bottle of Sauv Blanc in the other room if you’re interested.” 

“Please,” Aziraphale says, eyes fluttering shut. There’s a small smile gracing his face. “That would be delightful.”

When Crowley returns a few minutes later with a bottle of wine, Aziraphale’s eyes are still shut, simply enjoying the heat of the water. Crowley can tell he isn’t sleeping, though he looks to be dozing just a bit, not too different from how he used to relax in the bathhouses back in Rome. He startles a bit when the demon pulls a stool up to the side of the tub, but eagerly accepts a wine glass with a smile. One of them accidentally dims the lights to a soft, almost candlelight glow, sending shadows casting across their faces. As they drink, Aziraphale tells Crowley about his week in Germany, and Crowley regales him with his latest demonic endeavors, including a few plans he’s been working on to bring in the new year. 

By the time the bottle is empty, they’re both pleasantly tipsy, and Crowley has had to reheat the bathwater a couple of times. As carefully as he can, Aziraphale sets his empty wine glass on the floor, and with another sigh he says, “I must say, Crowley, this has been rather nice. I should probably be getting out if we’re to get to bed, though.” 

He goes to push himself to his feet, but before he can, an idea pops into Crowley’s head. “Wait,” he says, reaching out to grab the angel’s arm. Aziraphale pauses, settling back into the tub and looking expectant. But Crowley’s mouth is suddenly dry, distracted by the rivulets of water running down Aziraphale’s chest. Unable to use his words, he pulls his stool around to sit behind the angel and rolls up his sleeves before conjuring up a small bronze jug. As he leans over Aziraphale’s shoulder and dips the jug into the bathwater, he murmurs lowly into his ear, “Lean forward.” 

Without responding, Aziraphale does as he’s told, and Crowley gently empties the water onto his head. It darkens his hair a shade and runs down his back. The demon repeats the process again before grabbing a bar of soap resting nearby. “Come here,” he says, and Aziraphale eagerly leans back so Crowley can run his fingers through his wet curls. He groans softly as his scalp is massaged and his hair is worked into a light lather, heaves a sigh when it’s rinsed. When Crowley finishes washing his hair, he continues running his fingers through it, unable to resist the urge to lean forward and press a kiss to a rosy shoulder, to run his hands across Aziraphale’s collarbone. The angel makes another noise, reaching up to grasp at one of the hands that’s lazily stroking his chest hair. 

When Crowley thumbs a nipple on one swipe of his hand, Aziraphale turns his head and releases a shaky breath into his ear. “Crowley,” he shudders out, “love, you’re teasing me.”

“Me?” Crowley retorts, a low rumble that reverberates through both of their bodies. “Tease you? Never.” He leans back and stands, running his hands up Aziraphale’s chest and shoulders, drawing out a whine as he goes. “C’mon, let’s get you dry.” He turns his back and grabs a fluffy white towel he’d prepared earlier in the week. 

He can hear the water sloshing as Aziraphale gets to his feet and steps out of the tub. When Crowley turns back around, he’s waiting there expectantly, not even bothering to care about the water he’s dripping on the floor. It’s easy to see why he’s distracted; his skin is flushed all the way down his sternum, and his prick is hanging half-hard between his legs. 

Crowley can’t help but smile, crossing the room in two strides and reaching up to towel off his hair. Aziraphale leans into the touch and moves his head wherever he’s directed, eyes unmoving from where he’s staring at Crowley’s lips. He leans in for a kiss, but Crowley dips away before he can, much to the other’s annoyance. 

Slowly, Crowley makes his way down the angel’s body and kneels at his feet, pointedly ignoring the cock bobbing in his face. He hadn’t begun the evening with the intention to draw things out – that was something Aziraphale excelled at, not usually his style – but there’s something about this lack of urgency, the desire to take his time just because he can. Crowley knows the angel will break soon enough, and he runs the towel up the inside of one of his plush thighs– 

Above him, Aziraphale shudders, gulping in a deep breath. When he speaks, his voice trembles. “Crowley,” he whimpers, white knuckling the edge of the tub. “Please–”

“It’s alright, angel,” Crowley hums, letting the towel fall to the floor. “Told you I’d take care of you.” He looks up at him through half-lidded eyes, running a hand lightly up his other thigh. And there’s something so satisfying about the breath Aziraphale releases as a slender hand is wrapped around his cock, his head falling back as a moan rises to the ceiling. Crowley hadn’t planned on the teasing, but he had certainly been imagining this plenty of times. A bit overenthusiastic, the demon leans forward and runs his tongue along the shaft, catching a few droplets of water on the way. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” the angel sobs out, and one of his hands reaches down to grasp Crowley’s hair. Aziraphale is a warm, heavy weight under his tongue, tasting as pure and clean as a glass of water. He eases his cock into his mouth and hollows his cheeks. When Aziraphale lets out a gasp and tugs his hair tighter, Crowley feels himself throb in the tightness of his jeans, but he shuts his eyes and ignores it. _This is about_ _Aziraphale_ , he thinks, digging his thumb into the soft flesh of Aziraphale’s thigh and setting a slow rhythm. 

If he went long enough, he could probably even come like this: languidly sucking Aziraphale’s cock, deeper and deeper until the head begins to touch the back of his throat. Crowley knows the angel is close from the way his moans devolve into broken, desperate sounds, the way his thighs begin to tremble. Before he can come down Crowley’s throat, the demon pulls off of him with a groan and looks up. Aziraphale looks down and meets his eyes with a look of bewildered frustration, and Crowley can’t help but grin wildly, pumping his length at a steady speed. It’s slick with his spit, from root to tip, and the noises it makes as he strokes are obscene.

“Come on, Aziraphale,” he says roughly, leaning back in to nuzzle lovingly against his sac. He mouths at the skin there and licks his lips. “Want you to come. Give it to me.”

“Ahh, sh – _Crowley_ –” Aziraphale pants out, and he yanks the demon’s hair so hard he sees stars. Crowley stutters out a breath and releases Aziraphale’s thigh to grind the heel of his palm against the bulge in his crotch. His orgasm surprises him, its sudden intensity blindsiding, and a low moan is ripped deep from his chest. He barely even registers Aziraphale coming above him until a splash of seed hits his forehead. The angel regains his composure, chest heaving, until he finally releases his hold on Crowley’s head. Crowley watches the afterglow settle over him, feeling nice and foggy himself as he wipes the come off of his face with a thumb. He lazily pops it into his mouth, enjoying the tang of it until he hears a noise of frustration. 

“Oh…and after all that effort to get clean,” Aziraphale laments. Crowley meets where his gaze is pointed to see his spend painted across his stomach. Their eyes flicker to one another for only a moment before Crowley is pushing himself into a kneel and dragging his tongue up Aziraphale’s skin. He cleans it away and savors the salty taste on his tongue until the only thing on his stomach are shining lines of spit. The angel exhales shakily, unable to tear his eyes away as he breathes out, “Oh, you sweet, ravenous thing, you.”

It’s impossible to wipe the look of satisfaction off of Crowley’s face. His scalp is a bit sore and his knees have started to ache, but a pleasant haze has descended over him, only made better by the raw look on Aziraphale’s face. He leans back on his haunches. “That should get you to sleep easier,” he quips, and Aziraphale chuckles, having regained his breath. 

“Is that why you did it?” the angel ponders, no shortness of amusement in his tone. He bends down just enough to skim his fingers below Crowley’s jaw, grabbing his chin and urging him upwards. “Now please come here and kiss me, darling. Since you made me wait so long.”

“Greedy,” Crowley accuses fondly, rising to his full height to slot his lips against Aziraphale’s. They kiss leisurely for a moment, simply enjoying the places where their bodies meet, until they gently pull apart. “Missed you too, angel. But if we don’t get into bed, I’m likely to fall asleep standing right here.” His post-orgasmic haze has faded into a general wave of fatigue, which seems to be the same for Aziraphale, if his half-lidded eyes are any indication. 

In a snap, Crowley cleans up the mess in his jeans and changes himself into a black t-shirt and sweats. With the same miracle, he puts Aziraphale in a set of beige-colored night clothes: a loose, matching top and bottom set he figured the angel would like. He makes a small noise of approval, and the two of them, still a bit tipsy, make their way into the bedroom. Aziraphale takes the time to settle them under the blankets before nestling into the demon’s arms. The angel hums a soft “goodnight”, but Crowley is already long asleep.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is so much smut. EASILY the horniest thing i've ever written. but it was fun. enjoy!

The first thing Crowley knows when he wakes up – even before he opens his eyes – is that Aziraphale is there, in his arms, right where he was the night before. When he does open his eyes, he sees the angel tucked under his chin, his pale curls disheveled from air drying after his bath. Their legs are tangled together and, as Crowley notes with no small amount of pride, Aziraphale is still wearing the night clothes he’d picked out for him. Most importantly, however, he’s still asleep. 

Crowley sits up just enough so he can look down, study him in a state he’s very rarely seen him in. Aziraphale, for as long as they’ve known each other, never slept, but he seems to have taken to it like a duck takes to…well, whatever ducks are known for taking to. Pale eyelashes flutter across rosy cheeks, shallow breaths emerge from plump, parted lips. It’s baffling, Crowley thinks, how much he can look like a fucking work of art without even a smidge of effort. When he’s not even  _ conscious _ . This was a face worthy of being painted on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, and if Crowley could walk in there himself without burning his feet, he’d consider vandalizing it to make it so. He considers it for anyways, for a moment. 

He looks away from the sleeping angel to grab his phone from the bedside table, having miracled it there when he changed into his sleeping clothes the night before. It’s just before eight a.m., so there’s still plenty of time left in their day. When he glances at the window, curtains drawn shut, he can hear a light rain pattering against the glass. How apt, Crowley muses. A lazy Sunday morning doing absolutely nothing. The thought makes his stomach flip pleasantly: something about the idea of keeping an angel busy in bed during the day of the Lord, perhaps.  _ Well,  _ he thinks as he puts his phone away and flops back down into bed,  _ guess She also called it the ‘day of rest’. Can’t blame someone for taking advantage. _

He’s getting ready to snuggle down and try to fall back asleep when Aziraphale shifts. He opens his eyes slowly, blinking up at the demon a few times before he smiles and says, “Crowley. Good morning.”

“Morning, angel,” he answers, unable to keep the fond look off of his face. Crowley watches him wake up and really thinks he could keep him here forever like this: bleary-eyed and softened around the edges, radiating angelic warmth. Still, he can’t resist teasing. “You’ve got some… _ goop _ right here,” he says, and reaches out to wipe the sand in the corner of Aziraphale’s eye away with his thumb. 

“Hilarious, darling,” Aziraphale deadpans, but there’s humor in it. He takes a moment to stretch, shutting his eyes and arching his back before exhaling deeply and returning his gaze to Crowley. His hand settles to the demon’s shoulder. “You look beautiful like this. When you’ve just woken up.”

“Funny. I was just thinking the same about you,” Crowley chuckles. He presses a hand to Aziraphale’s chest and leans in to give him a proper kiss. 

“So,” Aziraphale starts when they break apart, “what do you have planned for the day?” He’s beginning to look more awake, which Crowley intends to fix. His eyes are expectant now, and he sits up, as if eagerly awaiting some long, drawn out list that’s been prepared ahead of time. 

Crowley shrugs one shoulder. “No plan,” he says casually, even though he knows Aziraphale has never been fond of those two words together. Before the angel can interrupt, he holds up a finger and continues. “I had a few rough ideas of how to spend the day. Little bit of this, little bit of that.” He indulges in a yawn, and when he opens his eyes, Aziraphale is staring at him with blatant concern. 

“What do you mean ‘no plan’? You plan for everything! And you insisted that you already had everything taken care of.” He’s getting himself worked into a proper frenzy now, anxiously fiddling with the buttons on his nightshirt. Crowley can’t help but watch him with some level of amusement as he looks for something within reach to fuss with. After a moment, Aziraphale huffs and starts to swing his legs over to the side of the bed. 

It isn’t difficult for Crowley to get a hand on his shoulder and quickly press him back into the bed, then seat himself in his lap and grab his wrists. The angel may be stronger than him, but Crowley knows how to use his speed to his advantage. Aziraphale looks up at him with wide eyes, stunned – and a bit miffed – at being so easily pinned. “Ah, ah, ah,” Crowley tuts, grinning down at him, “can’t have you getting out of bed, angel. Goes against the rules, remember?”

“Well,” Aziraphale nearly pouts, wriggling a bit in the other’s hold, “ _ clearly _ you haven’t put as much thought into this as I’d assumed you would, so–”

“Course I have,” he interrupts smoothly. “Had that bath running for you when you walked in last night, didn’t I? I loaded up your fridge, brought up some of the books you’ve been reading, downloaded some films on my phone we could watch. Illegally, of course.” 

Below him, Aziraphale’s expression shifts into something softer, but there’s still some lingering doubt there. Crowley releases his wrists and moves his hands to his chest to lean over him. “The thing is,” he continues, “is that it doesn’t matter what order we do things in. That’s the  _ point _ of a lazy day in bed, angel. Having vague ideas of what you want to do and saying blast it when they don’t work out.” 

“…Yes, but,” Aziraphale tries cautiously, “if it doesn’t work out, wouldn’t that just be…time wasted?”

“Who cares?” Crowley shrugs. “In case you haven’t noticed, we can waste as much time as we want now. Not like there’s an apocalyptic deadline looming over our heads anymore.” He knows this is still a new concept – along with so many other things that are new to them – so he softens his voice and finds one of Aziraphale’s hands with his own. “You don’t have to stress about this, Aziraphale. Don’t have to stress about anything, really, but especially not this. This is just for you to relax and enjoy yourself.”

Aziraphale begins stroking small circles with his thumb on their joined hand. Finally, he sighs softly and lets a hesitant smile grace his face. “Alright,” he concedes, looking up at the demon in his lap. “I suppose I…forgot. How silly of me.” 

“S’not silly,” Crowley argues, but Aziraphale is shaking his head. 

“No, it is silly. To think that any time with you could ever be wasted.” And the smile that Aziraphale gives him could move mountains and part seas, because if he wanted them to, Crowley would do it for him. He knows there’s a blush beginning to darken his cheeks, but he doesn’t care, not as Aziraphale reaches up with his other hand and cups his face to tug him down for a kiss. It’s slow and languid and utterly heart wrenching, made worse when they pull away and he says, “Thank you, Crowley. For being so patient with me.” 

What he means is  _ for  _ always  _ being so patient with me _ , but it’s left unsaid, and Crowley truly doesn’t mind. He plants another soft kiss on Aziraphale’s lips before sitting up and stretching his arms above his head, arching his back with a groan. As his spine pops, a bit of his shirt rides up to reveal a sliver of skin and a thatch of thick red hair trailing down below the waistband of his sweats. Crowley’s eyes are closed, but he can feel the heat from Aziraphale’s stare, so with an air of feigned indifference, he grunts out, “Alright, well, suppose I should get moving and make some breakfast. Someone has to–”

Before he can even make the move to get up, Crowley finds himself on his back with a playful angel hovering above him. His wrists and hips are pinned by a strong, firm body, making his gut swoop against his will. “Ah, ah, ah,” Aziraphale teases with a smirk, mirroring his words from earlier, “I thought the point was for the two of us to  _ stay  _ in bed. Isn’t that what you were just insisting, my dear?” 

“Uh, well,” he sputters stupidly, “if we’re being technical…it was for you to stay in bed.” He juts his chin up a bit defiantly, as if daring Aziraphale to challenge his words. “Never said anything about me.” 

The angel considers this, studying the demon like he’s the latest course that’s arrived at the table and he can’t decide where to take the first bite. Crowley tries not to squirm under his gaze. After an eternity of being absolutely ravaged by his eyes, Aziraphale hums thoughtfully. “Yes, I do suppose someone will have to make breakfast. But if today is about  _ my  _ enjoyment,” and he leans in, brackets Crowley’s slim body with his own, “then I would like to enjoy you first.” 

* * *

Crowley manages to stumble out of the bedroom after a good twenty minutes of Aziraphale pressing his lips to every inch of skin that he can see, and then some. The angel lets him go with reluctance and makes him promise to hurry back, lest he get too bored in bed by himself. Crowley’s corporation is suddenly buzzing with pent-up energy. When he catches a glance at his reflection in the hallway mirror, the pale stretch of his neck is mottled with newly formed bruises and gentle bitemarks. The sight shoots something electric up his spine. 

While he’d been planning this day out, he’d tossed around a few ideas of what he could competently serve to Aziraphale as a nice breakfast in bed. But now, knowing the angel is waiting for him in the other room, his round, soft body soaking in the excess warmth of the bedsheets, Crowley is finding it difficult to concentrate. He stares into a well-stocked fridge for ages until he groans and grabs a carton of eggs. If he’s going for speed, it’d be best to keep things simple.

He whips up a French omelette with brie and chives and a few slices of buttered and jammed toast. On the side, he adds a few delicately sliced strawberries. It looks like a decent enough meal. If he were in the habit of eating, Crowley might even be interested in stealing a few bites for himself. To finish things off, he makes a cup of breakfast tea just the way he knows the angel likes it, then balances everything in his arms and heads to the bedroom. 

Aziraphale is just where he left him, all drawn up in pale sheets and blankets. He’s reading a book, but unlike his normal proper posture, he’s curled lazily on his side, propped up by an elbow. He looks utterly indecent, despite the fact that he’s still fully clothed; it’s in the slow blink of his blue eyes, usual alertness dimmed by quiet of the morning. Crowley stands dumbly in the doorway, watching him read for far too long until Aziraphale goes to turn a page and catches sight of him. 

His face lights up as he closes his book. “Ah, welcome back, dear boy,” he says cheerfully. Sitting up, Aziraphale scoots backwards in bed and pats the empty spot next to him. Crowley’s mind stutters for a moment before restarting, and he finds himself moving to sit on the bed, placing the plate of food between them. 

“Don’t worry about crumbs,” he says, handing the angel his tea. He shoots a glare at the toast while Aziraphale takes a long drink from his cup. Breathing in the steam, he sighs happily, a content smile warming his face. 

“This all looks lovely, dear,” he smiles as he balances the teacup and saucer on his knee. Crowley sends a dirty look its way for good measure as the angel picks up the fork and cuts into the omelette. Melted cheese oozes as he cuts, and Aziraphale makes a noise of interest as he twirls it around his fork and brings a generous piece to his mouth. “Oh!” he exclaims as he chews. Crowley watches as his face morphs from a look of thoughtfulness to one of delight. “Oh, Crowley, this is wonderful.”

It’s surprisingly easy to let the praise wash over him, especially when he has such a nice view of Aziraphale’s Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows. Crowley has never been subtle in his staring – or at least, that’s what he was informed over dinner with the angel some two hundred years back. He’d managed to reign it in until the Second World War, when they reunited in the forties. Now, after the end of the world that never was, any lingering hesitation or embarrassment has been thoroughly quashed and long forgotten. Crowley is free to savor the delicate curl of fingers around the fork, the gentle moans of pleasure with each bite. And Aziraphale, in return, is free to pluck a strawberry with his other hand and press the sweet swell of it to Crowley’s lips. 

When the plate sitting between them is finally empty, Crowley feels as though he’s eaten a full meal himself. Not only did Aziraphale insist on sharing (with a few prompts of “really, you must try some, you did such a nice job”), he occasionally bridged the gap to suck the taste of fruit off the demon’s tongue. He’s only just drained the last of his tea when Crowley miracles the dishes to the kitchen and leans in to lick a long stripe up the throat that’s been distracting him all morning. 

A hand flutters to his back as Crowley nestles into the crook of the angel’s neck. Aziraphale chuckles fondly, sending vibrations rumbling through their bodies. “You’re insatiable, darling.” The warmth in his tone brings a pleasant heat to the demon’s cheeks. 

“Maybe,” he muses, wrapping slender arms around Aziraphale and falling back towards the bed. Aziraphale smiles and lets himself be coerced back under the blankets and snuggled up against. Crowley stretches languidly before slotting himself into his arms. “But you’re insatiable, too.”

* * *

It’s an undetermined amount of time later when a rumble of thunder outside shakes Crowley back into consciousness. He’d just intended to indulge himself for a moment and enjoy the softness of his lover’s body. Instead, the room is a shade darker when he squints his eyes open, and Aziraphale’s back is pressed against his chest. Crowley has an arm under him and wrapped around him, a joined hand resting on the angel’s stomach. He grunts and nuzzles against the pale curls at the base of his neck. 

On their joined hand, Crowley feels a thumb stroke back and forth across his skin. “Hello, love,” comes Aziraphale’s voice, drifting through the tranquil air of the bedroom and the pattering of rain outside.

“’ziraphale,” Crowley mumbles, thick with sleep. With a low grumble, he pulls the angel ever closer and noses the shell of his ear. He can’t help but notice the slight shiver that courses through Aziraphale’s body at the sound of his voice; he makes a faint noise and presses himself back into the demon’s arms. “’m sorry. Didn’t mean to fall asleep.” 

“Oh, no, it’s quite alright,” Aziraphale answers. There’s air in his tone, a noticeable hitch. Crowley suddenly finds it impossible to wipe the Cheshire grin off of his face. “I was just listening to the rain. It was nice. Calming.”

“Mhmm,” Crowley hums, and presses a kiss to the skin just below his ear. His mind is still foggy, limbs loose and waking up, but there’s a thrumming undercurrent of arousal settling in that’s becoming harder to resist by the second. Crowley untangles their fingers – not without a slight whimper of protest from the angel, he notes – and slides his hand up Aziraphale’s nightshirt, skating his nails through the downy hair on his stomach. He draws his fingers in a slow circle before slipping below his waistband– “Oh, fuck,” he breathes. 

Aziraphale squirms a bit impatiently under Crowley’s stilled hand. “…Well,” he says after a moment, “I thought…for a day in bed, a change of presentation might be…novelty, I suppose.” Almost subconsciously, he pushes his hips up towards the hand hovering over his mound. Crowley’s vision threatens to fade to black at the press of heat into his palm. 

It’s all Crowley can do to properly cup him, eliciting a faint gasp. The stupefied look on his face is replaced with a devilish grin twice as wide as before. “Oh, angel,  _ fuck _ ,” Crowley repeats, unable to keep the reverence out of his voice, and he hurriedly slinks out from under him. He guides the angel onto his back and settles himself between his thighs. He hovers just enough to keep an arm trapped between them, pressing more intently into his pelvis. 

Aziraphale had experimented once or twice with a vulva before, but for as long as they’d both been manifesting the equipment, he preferred wearing a cock. Switching genitalia like clothing was something Crowley enjoyed more between the two of them. And Crowley had always been rather vocal about his affinity for this particular form, what with the sensitivity and extra nerves, and the hot, wet heat of it all…and knowing Aziraphale is feeling that right now between those thick thighs of his– 

Crowley uses the sudden, dizzying surge of weakness that passes through him as an excuse to drape himself across Aziraphale’s body. The angel gasps again, but Crowley swallows it with his mouth in a brief but bruising kiss. When they break away, he sits up and whips his shirt off before starting in on the buttons of Aziraphale’s nightshirt with slightly shaky hands. “You,” he rasps, managing to make eye contact as he speaks, “are a right bastard, Aziraphale. The nerve you have…calling  _ me _ insatiable.” 

“Well, you rather are, aren’t you?” Aziraphale huffs indignantly, lips pursing primly even as a blush settles into his cheeks. His next words are caught in his throat, breath tripping out of him as Crowley finishes undoing the buttons and smooths his hands across the newly revealed ample chest. The angel takes a moment to try and compose himself before trying again. “You’ve been awake for not even five minutes now, and you’ve already got a hand down my pa _ aahhn _ –”

Crowley slips his hand past Aziraphale’s waistband to touch his sex directly, middle finger running down his slit. The angel lets out a moan as his eyes flutter shut. Crowley’s grin turns stupidly smug; he loves Aziraphale like this, open and wanting and willing to accept anything he was offered. As if there wasn’t anything that Crowley wouldn’t give him as soon as he asked. “Don’t think you’re in a position to do much talking,” he comments, fiddling with the angel’s waistband with his other hand. 

Before he can say anything, Aziraphale is tearing at his clothes, nearly getting them tangled up with Crowley in his enthusiasm. When he’s fully bare, Crowley sits back and surveys the sight before him. He’s still got a finger running featherlight between Aziraphale’s parted, plush lips, ignoring the already hardened bud of his clit. “You spoil me, angel,” he grumbles, watching his finger disappear into a set of glistening pink folds. Another moan is ripped from Aziraphale’s throat, his head tipping back towards the ceiling as Crowley adds another finger. “Should’ve guessed you’d do something like this, bloody hedonist that you are. Like you knew I wouldn’t be able to keep my hands off you.” 

“Cr–Cro–” Aziraphale groans out, voice trailing off into a whine at a crook of the fingers. His legs fall further open, and Crowley slinks up his body to press biting kisses to his jaw. Aziraphale’s body arches as a thumb brushes his clit. He scrabbles at the demon’s back, holding tight to his shoulders as he gasps, “ _ please _ , dear,  _ more _ .”

“ _ Yes _ ,” Crowley sighs against his skin, adding a third finger and pushing them deeper, circling his clit with his thumb. Aziraphale  _ wails _ , his grip turning just shy of bruising. And Crowley marvels at the sound, knowing that all of this is  _ his  _ doing, that he’s the reason Aziraphale’s thighs have begun to shake. He noses up against the angel’s ear, snake tongue teasing at the shell. “Next time you wear one of these,” he nearly hisses, “I’ll conjure up one of my own. Get you so wet and rub up against you in so many ways you won’t know up from down.” To punctuate his words, he bites his earlobe and twists his wrist a bit harder on the next thrust. 

Aziraphale clenches around him, breath stuttering as his body goes taut and his orgasm washes over him. The words previously trapped in his throat flow out in a rush of “oh oh  _ yes _ ”, and “good”, and “Crowley _ , Crowley _ ”. Even after however many times it’s been, the sight of Aziraphale reaching his peak combined with his name never fails to do funny things to Crowley’s insides. He slips his fingers out even as Aziraphale’s cunt continues to flutter, and the angel whines at the loss. 

Before Aziraphale can mourn too long, there are long fingers pushing past his lips, and the briny taste of his own slick hits him. He wraps his tongue around the digits and goes to meet his partner’s eyes only to see a flash of red hair disappear between his thighs. “Oh,  _ God _ ,” Aziraphale cries around the fingers in his mouth. He forgets his self-appointed task all too quickly, grabbing the hand with both of his own as a slow, wet stripe is licked up his slit. His clit twitches as Crowley circles it with the tip of his tongue. 

_ Blasphemy _ , Crowley thinks hazily and with a bit of pride. He manages to entangle his fingers with the angel’s and hold him there, acting as an anchor for the both of them. He slips his other hand free and digs into the meat of a plush thigh. As Crowley presses his face deeper into Aziraphale’s cunt, the flat of his tongue running along his shuddering entrance, he thinks he could get used to this. Maybe if they had a whole week in bed instead of a day, he would bury himself between his angel’s gorgeous thighs for hours until his jaw was sore. He can’t even bother thinking about the hard line of his cock trapped between his stomach and the bed; not when Aziraphale is mewling, reaching down with his spare hand to grasp at Crowley’s hair. 

“So good,” the angel sighs, rolling his hips in time with the strokes of Crowley’s tongue. “So good to me, Crowley, always,  _ my  _ Crowley–” 

His praise is cut off by a low growl and teeth nipping at the soft skin of his inner thigh. Aziraphale lets out another wanton moan and tightens his hold in Crowley’s hair, pushing him further into his cunt. The only difference in eating him out versus sucking him off, Crowley ponders, is that he can’t really speak, but Aziraphale seems to be making up for it and then some. Crowley tries to put his words into every swipe of his tongue, every exhalation and grunt, every kiss to his glistening slit. With everything he has, he conveys a singular thought:  _ mine _ . 

He allows the angel to chase his bliss slowly, letting it build like a wildfire catching in a field. Crowley keeps a steady rhythm, unwilling to change his pace even as the tremble in Aziraphale’s legs intensifies. His cries pitch higher, higher, until he freezes, letting out a small “oh” before he spasms and his cunt gushes. Crowley licks him through it, nearly letting himself get lost in the feeling of fresh slick dripping down his chin. He watches Aziraphale shudder, his stomach heaving as he begins coming down from his peak.

When the aftershocks have begun to calm down, Crowley releases his hold on Aziraphale’s thigh. He waits patiently until the angel finally looks down at him, graces him with a dazed smile. Crowley returns the smile, the picture of innocence, and curls two fingers into Aziraphale’s cunt just in time for it to clench around them. He crooks them just so, wraps his lips around his still-swollen bud, and sucks as hard as he can. 

A startled cry is punched from Aziraphale’s chest as a new orgasm is ripped from his body. Crowley makes a suction around his clit, feeling it pulse beneath his lips. Aziraphale is completely taut, mouth open in a silent shout, and he hovers there for what feels like ages; his grip on Crowley’s scalp has begun to sting. And then, all at once, the tension bleeds out of him and he collapses back into the sheets, hand falling from the demon’s head. Crowley sits up, continuing to massage his walls and milk every last bit of pleasure from his angel, who draws him closer with trembling arms. 

When Crowley finally pulls out, Aziraphale looks up at him with a glassy smile and watery eyes. He traces fingers up Crowley’s side, and all at once Crowley is aware of his own body once more, straining with desire. The angel has left a trail of slick down his chin and chest, and he’s sure there’s a significant wet spot all the way through the front of his tenting sweats. 

“Look at you,” Aziraphale utters tenderly, releasing their joined hand to cup Crowley’s face. “You’re just as much a mess as I am.” He presses his thumb into a ruddy, freckled cheek and rubs a circle into it. 

“You know what you do to me,” Crowley rasps. He’s almost startled by the pure gravel in his voice, but more than that, by the raw, utter vulnerability. He lets himself be rearranged as Aziraphale pulls him closer. The hard line of his cock brushes the inside of Aziraphale’s leg, and Crowley nearly whimpers. 

“Come here, my love,” Aziraphale beckons, and reaches down the front of his pants. Crowley sobs, a broken noise that escapes without his permission, as Aziraphale gets a grip on his shaft. He barely manages to pull his pants down to his knees, and in a few strokes, he’s coming, thick streaks of white painted across the soft curls of Aziraphale’s chest hair. 

With a grunt, Crowley rolls off Aziraphale and falls into the bed by his side, kicking off his pants as he goes. In turn, Aziraphale wraps an arm around him and snuggles him closer. Crowley snaps his fingers to clean the mess between them; on a slow day like today, he might’ve considered doing it the old-fashioned way, but a fresh wave of exhaustion has settled into his limbs. But he doesn’t want to sleep right now. He just wants to lay here in Aziraphale’s arms, a hand pressed over his strong, steady heartbeat. The thought that this is his life now – eternity in the hold of someone he only dreamed of touching for millennia – is dizzying. He could spend every evening for the rest of his days getting drunk off of it.

Above him, Aziraphale nestles his nose into a tuft of Crowley’s hair and presses a kiss to his forehead. “You know,” he murmurs quietly as he tucks Crowley’s head under his chin, “I was thinking – earlier, that is. I know I had some reservations about us…spending the day like this. But it really has been lovely.”

“Yeah?” the demon queries, hiding a growing smile by pressing his face into the hollow of Aziraphale’s throat. “Not bored or anything? Guess I have been keepin’ you pretty busy.”

Aziraphale snorts, but Crowley can hear the grin in his voice. “Yes, you have. But even while you weren’t, when I laid here while you slept…” his tone softens significantly, and he lays a hand over Crowley’s, the one over his heart. He pauses to entwine their fingers. “I was still here with you; you were still here with me. And really, when it comes down to it, that was…well, it was all I ever wanted in the first place.” 

“Oh,” Crowley breathes, but the sound is more punched out of him. His throat feels thick all of a sudden. Aziraphale is a  _ bastard _ , he thinks, both with frustration and affection. When he can speak again, his voice is muffled, pressed against pale skin. “Y-Yeah, that was…me too.” Heat rises to his cheeks out of embarrassment; even now, after all they’ve been through, words are still a struggle. “I meant, that was. What I wanted too.”

“I know, my dear,” comes Aziraphale’s response, his tone a gentle touch of reassurance. It’s a blessing is what it is. Crowley knows he’s said  _ I love you, angel _ , and Aziraphale has said  _ I love you, too _ . If Aziraphale notices any teardrops rolling down his neck, dripping from Crowley’s cheeks, he doesn’t say anything. And that’s a blessing, too. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was genuinely a lot of fun to write! just like. writing dirty shit and not worrying if it sounds silly bc it was fun. the highlight of writing this was when i got to the pussy-eating "Watermelon Sugar" came on my Spotify lmaoo


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